My Stag
by Drizzleheart0419
Summary: Some people have people out there who care for them, even thought they may or may not recognize it. The protector will feel that way from life... until death. *ONE SHOT!*


**AN: I really wanted to do a one-shot, so here it is. I had this in my head for a while, and now you can see how dark I can really get. This doesn't relate to me or anyone that I know, but I know that some people out there who need to be told that there are people to help them.**

Don't you ever hate the feeling where you're falling, falling, and falling endlessly, waiting for the sweet hands of Death, to wrap His arms around you, making you feel welcome, when you weren't when you were alive?

I don't hate the feeling, especially after the shitty life I had to wake up to each morning from where I was only appreciated. My dreams. Each day, I'd get dressed, get every paper that was due for the day left blank, and leave for the twenty minute walk from my house to the school. I'd walk next to the roads, judging how fast and how many cars were going by, thinking of how fast I'd fall to Death's grip.

But, no, my fate kept me walking in a straight line. I'd make it to school, every day, where all the stereotypes are that are thriving. Jocks would throw me to the ground, but I'd roll until I was on my feet and walk on as if they weren't there. The popular girls would snort and whisper when I walked by, making sure that'd I'd hear what they were saying. _'Continue walking, and they'll just go to Hell themselves,' _is what I'd thought everyday as I went to my homeroom, which is the only 'safe' place in this school. The teacher is nice, the only one in the world who cares. He'd keep an eye on me as I sat at my desk, in the far back, away from all of the horrors. He lets me sketch as the announcements come on, the Pledge of Allegiance, and the first bell. I see him as a Stag, always keeping an eye out.

A week ago, I'd started to draw him as what I see him as. A silver buck with white eyes and a huge rack soon appeared on the page. I decided to color it, which I don't like to do. No colors besides black, grey, silver, and white were allowed. But it was for my protector. I shaded it, made sure it looked like it could leap off the page any time it wanted to. I finished it in about three days, which is a long time. Since I didn't know what else to draw, so I drew myself as a broken bird.

A black peacock was sprawled across the page, her face sad. Her wings were opened, but hung at an awkward shape. Her tail feathers were dull and flat, like leaves strewn across the ground. The eyes were deep pits of sadness, and her beak curled into a frown. But my favorite part of the bird was the silver heart that was the only bright thing on her. It was dull, but it was the only glimmer of hope on the page.

The last day, I looked at my page, and my hand subconsciously started sketching something lying next to the bird, keeping watch.

My last day, I left my sketchbook in a place only where'd he'd find it when he needed to. I left silently and walked down the hall, my hands empty. The usual people make their comments that usually didn't hurt, but today they stung more than ever. I left the school and ran home, throwing my stuff on my bed. I glanced the piece of paper on my desk, and a single tear trailed down my cheek as I left my room, my house, my yard.

I traveled through the woods like an expert. After all, it was my trail. And finally, I made my way to my cliff, my sweet, loving cliff where I throw all my secrets to the winds. But this time, I'd throw my soul into the strong wind. I sniffled and smiled, thinking about my last words that were never said, just written, then dove.

Air whistled past my ears, and my eyes closed as the water came closer. It hit me like a wall, but the pain throbbed away as I opened my eyes again to see Death Himself hold his arms out to me. I gratefully grabbed them as He pulled me in, leaning down to whisper in my ear.

"You have freed yourself to make sure the others who have suffered like you but did not end their lives yet to protect them, warm them, and make them see that there _are _people who care for them in this world. Many, many people will thank you, but one last thing before I let you go…"

Death snapped his fingers, and a picture showed up of my homeroom teacher, looking through my sketchbook. His face when pale as I saw that he was on my last page. Me, laying there, broken. And him, next to me, helping me. After, he clasped his hands over his face and started weeping. I knew why he was weeping. My last words, left unspoken, just written.

"_You were the only one who looked out for me, cared for me, always was there for me. I saw you as a father that I never had nor knew, but I didn't just see as my father. I saw you as my protector, my savior, my stag. You fought off the rivals and won, still keeping me in your sight. You helped me when I was about to end my life the first time. And the second. But the third, you could do nothing about. The third was special to me because it was my birthdate. March third. Just like yours. So this I leave you my sketchbook and my last words that mean more to you and me than to my mother. When you cry, don't think it is because you failed me, but cry because you know that I am helping every other child out there who were hurt like me, no matter how young. I will make sure they have their own stag like you were for me. Thank you, Mr. Hirsch. Keep this close to your heart, my savior, my father, my stag."_


End file.
